


Pity This Busy Monster

by stoprobbers



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s not sure what he expects when they board the jet back to London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pity This Busy Monster

He is not sure what he expects when they board the jet back to London. He knows he expected a zeppelin and since they are now boarding a private plane, he knows his expectations mean nothing. He is reeling — from his (re)generation, from the Daleks, from That Kiss — and falling deeper and deeper into his own head. As he settles into the cushy seat he feels as if he is actually looking out at the world from binoculars deep in the recesses of his own head. That thought, like its subject, feels impossibly far away.

He has no expectations and so he is completely unsure of why Rose raises the thick armrest between them immediately after takeoff. Her seatbelt clicks a high A when she opens it and curls into his side. Unable to process this turn of events, he relies on reflex; his arm lifts automatically to accommodate her, and she slides her arm across his stomach. It dips into his jacket, her fingers curling around his ribs. He turns his face so his nose is just barely in her hair, but doesn't speak. It's possible she thinks he's waiting for her, but really he's forgotten words. All words. There are no words for what is happening to him, to them. 

"I feel," she starts after an amount of time he can't keep track of passes, then stops. There is a pressure behind his eyes he thinks may be tears, or exhaustion, or both.

"I feel," her voice is hoarse and soft, "so empty."

Her arm tightens across his stomach, fingers digging a little deeper. He squeezes her shoulder with what feels like the last of his strength, and she nuzzles his chest. Through his thin t-shirt he feels her eyes close, thinks it's a good idea, and does the same.

  
***

He has to sit in the shower. He's not sure if he nodded off on the plane and dreamed, or if he just sat there with his eyes closed and thought, but when they landed and rose he ached. Still aches. Rose showers first, not speaking, barely able to keep her eyes open, and leaves the water set for him. His hands shake as he strips, knuckles popping softly, and that's the last of his strength. The tub is warmed from her shower, the water hot and steaming; he faces away from it and lets it rain on his shoulders and wishes he could stand so it could really pound down. He uses the soap and shampoo within reach and watches the ashes of the other universe swirl down the drain as soapy water drips into his eyes. He feels bereft of something he cannot name and a hundred things he can. He wishes for the hum of his TARDIS but gets nothing in return.

It takes some time for him to dry off and wrap himself up in a towel, and his eyes are so bleary and heavy he almost misses the pair of flannel pants sitting on the toilet lid. He pulls them on absently, and leaves the bathroom door open a crack so he can see where the bed is. He should be asking questions about spare rooms and boundaries but his head feels thick and heavy and Rose is only sprawled on half of the bed.

When he wakes in the middle of the night it's because Rose is twitching next to him, her body jerking in short bursts. For a moment he cannot understand what is happening and then realizes: she is having a bad dream. Not quite a nightmare but her face is creased in a frown, her back tense. In his half-sleep he pulls her close, murmurs soothing words in her ear, and doesn't even register he's speaking in his native language. She relaxes almost immediately, pressing her nose into his forearm and curving into him.

He wakes again to one of his legs between hers and her gold-brown eyes which go very suddenly blurry when she kisses him, hard.

"I never thought I'd come back here," she says against his mouth. It's only then he realizes she was sleeping in her pants and a thin vest and nothing else; one hand scrabbles at her back while her nipples press into his chest, sending him spinning. "I didn't want to come back here."

"Rose–"

He's interrupted by her tongue, and it doesn't feel like punishment, it feels like wanting and so he responds, he gets his hand under her vest and up her bare back while she tugs at his hair and tastes him. She tastes like woman and life and morning breath and he can feel something catch fire between him, and a pulsing between his legs. He is glad arousal feels mostly the same.

He ends their kisses by yawning and her hips, which had been rocking her up and down his thigh through flannel he now hates more than Daleks, slow to a stop. He makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat but can't seem to get his eyes open either.

"Sleep," she whispers, stroking his cheek. "Sleep, sleep, my Doctor, sleep…"

He runs his nose along hers and manages one more brush of their lips before he obeys. He hopes this is not a dream.

  
***

When he wakes for real it is afternoon and Rose is on top of him, straddling the tops of his thighs, hands stacked on his chest and her chin on her hands, watching him. He blinks a few times, yawns, blinks again. She smiles.

"Hello," he rasps. He has not spoken for a long time and feels it.

"Hello," she replies, the corners of her eyes just barely crinkling.

"You're on top of me."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Both eyebrows rise. "Should I move?"

"Preferably not, no," His hands fly to her hips without even registering their intent with his brain.  She laughs.

"Good," she says, and wiggles. His hips buck a little bit against her.

"Pity this busy monster, manunkind. Progress is a comfortable disease."

"I'm sorry?" Exceptional nature of their situation aside, he is quite sure it is too early to be quoting avant garde poetry. Incorrectly, too. 

"It's Cummings."

"I know who it is. You missed a word."

"Lenses extend unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish returns on its unself." She replies with a roll of her eyes.

"Am I the wish or the unwish?" She is warm where she presses against his thighs and he is so very, very confused and hopeful.

"You're its unself," her tongue pokes out between her teeth. "I traveled so far, through so many universes, looking for you. And here you are. Underneath me."

"That's very Zen."

"I became you," she says seriously, all smiles gone. "I think I understand, now, a bit more of the why. Not all of it, not nearly enough of it, but some of it. Enough to know that this… that you… that  _we_ deserve this."

"Deserve what?"

"Happiness."

She is matter of fact in a way he wants to protest and she knows so she kisses him to shut him up, kisses him to seal her words, to protect them from his fear and doubt. She kisses him and kisses him and by measures he relaxes. He is no longer miles away in his own head but right here in the now and the heat and the smell and taste of Rose, and Cummings is clattering around in his head as he rolls them and pins her down in the plush bed.

"A world of made–" he starts against her throat but can't speak and suck and lick at the same time. She steps in effortlessly, wriggling her top up as he reaches for her breasts, speaking as if they are sharing the same voice. His other half as he's always known and been afraid to say.

"–is not a world of born — pity poor flesh and trees, po- _oh_ -or stars and,,, and…"

He releases her nipple and she whimpers. "Poor stars and stones, but never this fine specimen of hypermagical ultraomnipotence…"

He trails off because she has wriggled out of her pants now, the scrap of cotton discarded off the edge of the bed, and because she is pushing down his pajamas and she is so burning hot and wet, the fires of the sun and the life of the oceans, skin against skin. He rolls off her to discard them and she sits up behind him, tongue swiping down his spine, lips following, moving with words.

"We doctors know a hopeless case if–"

He is above her, between her legs and poised to enter her and she cuts herself off with another whimper, trying to lift her hips and take him in. He grabs her beneath one knee, presses her thigh to her belly and his lips to hers, harder than she's expecting.

"Listen," he rasps out and her eyes fly open, panicked. He grins wickedly, knowing he's made her forget all about their little recitation, knowing this is the most important part. He sinks into her slowly, letting them both adjust, feeling the world dip and spin and right itself again and the way her muscles clench, knowing that she is right, has always been right, and that this is his reward, all of it, forever. Knowing he will never give it up. "There's a hell of a good universe next door; let's go."


End file.
